


heal the wound but leave the scar

by ExultedShores



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Courtship, Explicit Consent, Fade to Black, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnos is a good brother, M/M, No Spoilers, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Scar Worship, Sisyphus and the Aloadae are awful, War and Death are peak romance, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28637175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: “War and peace are like the tides, a constant push and pull,” Ares says as he rises, placing his now clean sword back in its scabbard at his hip. “Without peace, war would become a dreadfully dull affair, I’m afraid. The mortals need time to recuperate from strife. As do I, for that matter. Not even we Gods are capable of forsaking rest entirely.”So that’s what this is about. The battle, the Keres, the souls – it’s not a gift at all.It’s a trap.Thanatos’ grip tightens on his scythe. “I have work to do.”“No,” Ares counters, calmly. “You do not.”
Relationships: Ares/Thanatos (Hades Video Game), Hypnos & Thanatos (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 211





	heal the wound but leave the scar

**Author's Note:**

> Ares and Thanatos still live in my head rent free so please have another 6.5k about them and why they're peak romance.

There has been a battle.

Usually, this would not be anything of note to Thanatos. Mortals fight constantly, over everything, and those that fall on the battlefields are not Thanatos’ to collect, much as he loathes to leave any soul to the Keres. On occasion, most often when Lord Ares is involved, there are multiple battles at once, and Thanatos can poach the souls from some of the smaller skirmishes while his sisters are preoccupied.

But there is no war, and the Keres will not leave their sole feast be. They never have before.

And yet…

The souls call for release, call for Death, call for _Thanatos_ , and he cannot ignore them. He _cannot_ , he knows what happens when he does, when he is forced to. It took him weeks to catch up on his harvest after –

Well. _After_.

There is nothing Thanatos despises more than being _late_.

He shifts from his own pocket of Erebus to the surface, onto the battlefield, sword already out of its scabbard, gauntlet poised and prepared to swipe at the Keres that will surely challenge him for these souls. He will fight them, he _will_ , he is so incredibly _tired_ –

“Peace, my dear Death.”

Thanatos is not greeted with a field of unharvested souls and a flock of his sisters flying overhead. He is, instead, greeted with a field of unharvested souls and a flock of his sisters dead amidst the mortals – and War himself sitting atop the remnants of what appears to have been a crudely constructed catapult, cleaning his blade of mortal blood and godly ichor alike.

“I did not think you capable of requesting peace, Lord Ares.”

Even as he speaks the words, he allows his weapons to fade back into the shadows, instead summoning his scythe to his hand. Whatever compelled Ares to sue for peace, Thanatos will not leave this rare gift of battle-perished souls unclaimed.

A single sweep, and the souls take flight, flock to him, are _his_.

Ares is silent as he works – he always is, on those rare occasions when he gets to watch Thanatos reap his harvest – and he holds his peace until the souls have been sent ahead to Charon to be ferried across the river Styx.

“War and peace are like the tides, a constant push and pull,” Ares says as he rises, placing his now clean sword back in its scabbard at his hip. “Without peace, war would become a dreadfully dull affair, I’m afraid. The mortals need time to recuperate from strife. As do I, for that matter. Not even we Gods are capable of forsaking rest entirely.”

So that’s what this is about. The battle, the Keres, the souls – it’s not a gift at all.

It’s a trap.

Thanatos’ grip tightens on his scythe. “I have work to do.”

“No,” Ares counters, calmly. “You do not.”

And he is… correct.

There is no call, no pull, no souls asking for release or crying out in distress. Thanatos’ crop is being harvested for him, peacefully, properly, _swiftly_.

“Hermes,” the conclusion is not a difficult one to reach. “You thought this through, then.”

He is still clutching his scythe, prepared to swing if Ares so much as _tries_ to restrain him, to keep him from leaving. Thanatos almost hopes he will. If Ares raises a hand against him, he has an excuse to flee, to leave this gift of souls unrepaid without owing anything at all to Olympus.

He already owes Ares far too much.

Of course, Ares does not do anything of the sort – he would _never_ , Thanatos knows perfectly well. He goes so far as to deliberately move his hand away from the hilt of his sword, resting it on the small of his back instead. “Your time is valuable. I do not wish to impose more than necessary.”

“I don’t see why you believe it necessary at all,” Thanatos snips – but he does remain. He has no desire to earn War’s ire, in the grand scheme of things.

Ares’ gaze bores into his. “You are smarter than this, Thanatos.”

Thanatos starts despite himself. He cannot rightly recall the last time Ares addressed him by his name alone, if ever – it’s always ‘my Lord’, or ‘my dear Death’, or, more recently, ‘my Emperor’, after the ridiculous moniker the mortals bestowed upon the butterfly most often associated with his domain. Not just Thanatos. _Never_ just Thanatos.

“Am I?” he mutters, finally allowing his scythe to dematerialise from his hand. “I’ve not been particularly shrewd as of late.”

“You have not,” Ares agrees, has to agree, because it’s an objective truth, “though not for the reasons you believe. You have no fault in what was done to you – but you are the one who chooses how to handle the aftermath.”

Thanatos barely refrains from snorting derisively. _You have no fault in what was done to you_ , Ares says, with so much certainty, as though he has any idea of what transpired. As though he knows he is right – which he is _not_. Thanatos allowed himself to be deceived, allowed himself to be trapped, allowed himself to be hidden away. It was his own naiveté that led to his capture, and he has to be better, has to be more vigilant, has to be _strong_. It cannot happen again. It _cannot_.

He does not tell Ares any of this. “I am handling matters just fine, thank you.”

“You are denying yourself respite and comfort,” Ares counters, voice still so infuriatingly calm. “It will consume you, in due time. You must –”

“It is not your place to command me, Lord Ares,” Thanatos says, sharply. “You would do well to remember as such.”

To his credit, Ares immediately bows his head in deference. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, so very sincerely. “I did not mean to presume, my Emperor. I merely wished… Well, I have some experience with matters such as this. I have seen many destroy themselves in their quest to heal, and I would not have you be one of them.”

Thanatos clings fiercely to his ill-earned indignation, because the alternative is not something he is capable of right now. “I am not some mortal come undone by one of your wars, Lord Ares,” he says. “What would you know of my recuperation, truly?”

Ares is silent, brow furrowed in contemplation. Thanatos lets himself believe this is the end of it, lets himself believe he has won – but no, not yet. War does not cease quite so easily.

He reaches for the clasps of his armour, face still so serious as he slides the leather straps free of their fastenings. He’s meticulous about it, his breastplate as valuable to him as his scythe is to Thanatos, and he sets it down atop his cape so as not to soil it with the dirt of the battlefield. Underneath, he wears a simple shortened chiton, the linen pinned at both shoulders; Ares frees the cloth at his left shoulder, letting it fall open to reveal part of his chest, not unlike the way Thanatos wears his own chiton.

It is… not an unpleasant display, to be certain. But Thanatos fails to see the purpose of it.

“Why –?” he begins, but the indignation dies in his throat when Ares steps closer, pushing the fabric of the chiton further back to reveal a scar that stands out stark-white against his dark skin, curling diagonally from his left hip all the way up to his right clavicle, shaped like –

Thanatos has already lifted his hand to touch the marred tissue when he remembers himself, outstretched fingers curling into a fist. And only now does Ares grasp him, touch light and careful around Thanatos’ wrist as he guides his hand forward, pressing his fingers against the scar shaped like the links of a chain.

It is cold, almost searingly so. Where Ares’ skin is hot, blood and life thrumming steadily just underneath, the scar is freezing, numb, _dead_. As though a part of Ares, _this_ part, perished long ago, while the rest of him lives on.

The same way a part of Thanatos was stripped away when Sisyphus snapped the manacles around his wrists. Wrists that bear scars still pink, still healing, even though it has been months. Scars he’s hidden under golden bracers, to keep his family from looking at him with more pity than they already do.

“I know more than most,” Ares says, and when Thanatos meets his eye, there is no pity swimming behind his blood-red gaze. There is only understanding, sympathy – and no small amount of vulnerability. “Experience is a harsh teacher.”

Ares releases Thanatos’ wrist, but Thanatos keeps still, both horrified and intrigued by the sharp contrast of hot and cold underneath his fingertips. “What happened to you?”

He whispers the question, as though it’s a secret, as though it’s something shameful – because it _is_. Chains are shameful, humiliating, painful, and Thanatos despises himself for the sense of relief that is blooming in his chest, hates that the thought of Ares in such a predicament makes him feel _lighter_. If Ares – strong, bold, capable Ares – was caught in this manner, then perhaps… perhaps Thanatos is not as pathetic as he assumed himself to be.

Ares takes a step back, away from Thanatos’ touch, and pins his chiton back in place. “Not here,” he says. Not in the midst of this battlefield, surrounded by the fresh corpses of mortals and Keres. It feels too much like an open wound.

He does not don his armour again, sending it ahead to Olympus with a flick of his wrist, and he leads Thanatos through a small stretch of woods, stopping at a shallow creek where the battle’s survivors stopped to clean themselves and fill their canteens. It is deserted now, so long after the fighting has ended, yet there is life in the air here. Those who lived rested in this very spot to begin their recovery, and where the battlefield at their backs feels like an open wound, this place feels like a scab – like a _scar_.

They sit on a large, smooth rock at the waterside, Thanatos perched at the very edge, Ares sitting wide-legged, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. It is odd, to see him this way, without his armour – both literal and figurative. He truly is prepared to strip himself bare for Thanatos’ benefit.

“It happened a long time ago,” Ares begins, without any preamble. His eyes are fixated on the glint of the setting sun reflecting on the water’s surface. “I was young. Brash and foolish and so very sure of my own abilities. My family –”

He stops, shakes his head, lets out a mirthless chuckle. “You’ve met them. You know how they view those who bring calamity. I wished to prove myself worthy of their regard. When I learned of the intention of two giants – brothers, Uncle Poseidon’s spawn – to storm Olympus itself, I charged without second thought, without ever thinking to inform my relatives. I wanted it to be my triumph alone.”

There was no such triumph, Thanatos does not need to be told to understand. But he holds his peace, lets Ares speak. It is the smallest courtesy he can give.

“I was overconfident, and short-sighted in my zeal. They overpowered me. Wrapped me in chains and held me in an old pithos – an added indignity,” Ares continues, his voice even, controlled, but his face contorting into an ever fiercer scowl. “It was Hermes who freed me, in the end, with Artemis’ aid. It took them a year.”

“A year?” Thanatos breathes, can’t help but question, because… because it’s _unthinkable_. He only spent a handful of days in captivity, and it felt like an eternity – like darkness and pain were all he had ever known and all he ever would know for the remainder of his existence. To have endured such a thing for a full year…

“A year,” Ares confirms. “I was fading. _Dying_. If Hekate had shrouded her moon for the twelfth time before I was freed, I would have ceased to exist.”

Thanatos only vaguely realises his mouth is agape. “I did not know,” he says, uselessly so – if he’d known, they would not be having this conversation. “I never realised, when you were gone for that long, I –”

“You are not my keeper, Thanatos,” Ares is swift to soothe. “You and I have gone without one another for longer periods of time, before as well as since. And you are not reliant on me as I am on you.”

He’s right, Thanatos knows. And yet it is jarring, to learn that Ares went through something so horrific without Thanatos’ knowledge, whereas Ares came to find him mere days after his own disappearance. Logically, he realises it is because the world can function without War where it cannot without Death – but it still feels as though he’s fallen short, somehow. As though he’s failed Ares.

“I may not be your keeper, Lord Ares,” he says, “but I _am_ sorry. If I’d known…”

Ares’ answering smile is soft. “I know,” he says simply, because he does. “Thank you.”

He deserves no gratitude for what he did not do, but Thanatos does not protest. Perhaps the sentiment is enough, so long after the fact.

There is still no call for his return to work, and Thanatos understands the purpose of the story, of the vulnerability Ares dared to show him. He understands the next step is his own to take. “If I may ask,” he begins, hesitantly, “what did you do, after you were freed? How did you…?”

 _How did you return to normal?_ he doesn’t ask. _How did you cope?_

“I started a war,” Ares shrugs.

Not that surprising an answer, all things considered. “And that helped?”

“Like a charm,” he drawls, the words filled with self-deprecating sarcasm. “Rushing headfirst into conflict was what caused my woes to begin with, so clearly the solution was to learn how to _better_ rush headfirst into conflict.”

Thanatos hums a quiet laugh. “Clearly.”

Ares shifts his weight, angling his body towards Thanatos, eyes sharp and sincere as he looks up at Thanatos from his hunched over position. “You have no fault in what was done to you,” he says once again, but the statement is broader, now – and holds much more weight. “But you _are_ responsible for how you handle the aftermath.”

“Should I start a war, too?” Thanatos quips – has to quip, because he feels so very fragile right now, and anything more profound will shatter him.

“If you wish to wear yourself down until you inadvertently make a highly embarrassing scene, then by all means, encroach on my territory,” Ares lilts, the levity of his tone clashing horribly with the severe expression on his face. “If not, then I suggest allowing yourself to rest, and speaking to someone about what you went through, when the time is right. Punishing yourself for another’s crime is not justice.”

_Punishing yourself for another’s crime is not justice._

Thanatos has not heard it put into such simple, such _true_ words before. He wonders how long it took Ares to boil it down so effectively.

He wonders how long it would have taken him, if he hadn’t had someone to spell it out for him. If he’d had to figure it out for himself, as Ares has.

“Thank you,” he says after a beat, his voice hoarser than it has any right to be. “I will take your counsel into consideration.”

“That is all I ask, my Emperor.”

And it is a request, not a demand. Ares has never demanded anything of him, though Thanatos owes him more than could be repaid in a mortal’s lifetime thrice over.

It means more than he could ever say.

For but a moment, he entertains the thought of recounting the full story of Sisyphus’ deceit to Ares. It would be easy, he thinks – or, well, easier than it would be with another. Ares already knows more about what transpired than anyone else; Ares has been through something so very similar – something worse, even; Ares would not judge him for his mistakes. Ares would know where to go from here.

But the words stick in his throat, and Hermes is beginning to lose steam, he can tell.

He is late.

And there is nothing Thanatos despises more than being _late_.

* * *

It is Hypnos he goes to, in the end.

He still cannot speak of it, of Sisyphus and the chains and the pain and the despair and the humiliation, cannot force the words past his lips no matter how much he wants to. No matter how much he knows he _needs_ to.

So instead, he asks his brother to watch his dreams.

Hypnos doesn’t, usually. It is an unspoken agreement in the House of Hades, that Sleep does not invade the privacy of their dreams, though he is capable. He hasn’t seen Thanatos’ dreams since they were children and he didn’t know any better.

Perhaps this is the coward’s way out. But then Thanatos has never been particularly brave.

He sleeps, and lets Hypnos see the chains, lets Hypnos feel his panic, lets Hypnos hear his screams. His nightmare, such as it is, speaks for him in a way he doesn’t think he ever could.

Hypnos watches, and Hypnos knows now, Hypnos _understands_ now.

Hypnos also takes pity on him, and guides his dreams to greener pastures – to light breaking through the darkness, to calloused hands unlocking his chains, to a figure in gleaming armour drawing their sword to raze a kingdom to the ground in his name. To a scarred chest, hot and cold underneath his fingertips, to a gently rippling stream deep in a forest, to a calm voice telling him –

_Punishing yourself for another’s crime is not justice._

His rest is dreamless, after that.

When he wakes, what must be hours later, he isn’t surprised to find Hypnos has crawled into bed with him, just as he used to when they were children. When his powers were still underdeveloped and the only way he knew how to stop a nightmare was to let his own slumber bleed into Thanatos’.

Hypnos wakes with him, their entwined sleep broken, and he immediately wraps his arms around Thanatos’ middle, embracing him the way he always does. The way he hasn’t done in Chaos knows how long now, because Thanatos hasn’t let him. Because Thanatos has been too busy. Because Thanatos has been valuing his work above his brother.

He feels so very young again, awkward and unsure but _safe_ , and he allows himself the indulgence of burying his face in his twin’s hair, just for a moment – or perhaps a bit longer than a mere moment. Hypnos’ mess of curls has always been a good place to cry.

His brother doesn’t say anything about it.

He doesn’t say anything at all, not until Thanatos sits up and his breathing stops being quite so laboured.

“Seems like you had quite the adventure, huh?” Hypnos begins, his attempt at sounding his usual chipper self falling completely flat. “And people wonder why I don’t go up to the surface.”

“It’s not as though I have a choice, Hypnos.”

“I know. I know you don’t, I just…”

He trails off, and Thanatos cracks a smile that’s very nearly genuine. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words before.”

Hypnos sputters. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey there brother, sorry you got kidnapped and everything, but at least the guy who rescued you is nice to look at’?”

“Something like that.”

Of course, Hypnos takes that as an invitation. “Does everyone on Olympus look like that?”

Thanatos startles them both when he laughs. “No, Hypnos, not everyone on Olympus looks like that.”

“Oh,” Hypnos says. “Well then, all the more reason to snatch this one up!”

“ _Hypnos_ ,” Thanatos admonishes, but there is no bite to his tone. In fact, he is still smiling, and he feels… lighter. He knows he is not alright, not by a long shot, but this helped. The knot of shame and fear isn’t cinched quite so tightly in his chest anymore.

Hypnos puffs out his cheeks. “You _like_ him!” he accuses, prodding lightly at Thanatos’ upper arm. “I can tell from your dreams.”

“This is why no one ever lets you watch their dreams,” Thanatos deadpans, vaguely aware of the golden hue colouring his cheeks.

“You did,” Hypnos points out.

“I did,” Thanatos acquiesces.

“I’m glad you did.”

“So am I.”

Hypnos’ lopsided smile is brimming with affection. “You know you can always talk to me, right? About anything. Like what happened to you. Or any handsome Olympians you’re into.”

Thanatos pointedly ignores that last part. “I know,” he says. “I know, Hypnos. This particular incident is just… a sensitive topic.”

“Geez, I wonder why.”

Thanatos rolls his eyes, but still his smile remains. Ares was right; he truly didn’t realise how much he needed to rest until now, how exhausted he’s been from keeping up his pointless façade of strength.

Regardless, he does still have a job to do. “I ought to see about relieving Hermes.”

“Don’t trust him with your butterflies, do you?”

He does not, in fact, but then he doesn’t trust anyone with the souls he is supposed to collect. They are _his_. “I’ve neglected my duties long enough,” he says instead. “And I’m keeping you from yours as well.”

“Aw, don’t worry about that, Thanatos. You know I don’t mind getting behind with work if it’s for you!”

“To the grievance of every insomniac soul on the surface.”

“Eh, they can sleep when they’re dead.”

“Not if I don’t go to collect them.”

“Oh, right,” Hypnos has to admit. “Well, you hop on to it then. But if you need to rest again, or talk, you know where to find me!”

“I do,” Thanatos nods. “Thank you, Hypnos.”

He shifts up to the surface before he can give in to his desire to stay with his brother, and for the first time since the incident, the harsh light of Helios’ chariot does not fill him with dread.

It’s progress.

* * *

He next sees Ares when he comes to collect the soul of a king, felled by poison.

“There will be war over this, then?”

Ares nods. “The mortals of this kingdom believe their ruler was assassinated by the neighbouring city-state. It was, in fact, one of the king’s own advisors who slipped the poison into his drink. I rather suspect Eris is behind this. It reeks of her machinations.”

Thanatos has only met Ares’ sister a handful of times throughout his existence, and he would care to keep it that way. War may be brutal, but Strife is _cruel_ , and she, unlike her brother, has neither attachment nor devotion to Death. He much prefers conducting his business with Ares or even his sister Enyo, when he must.

“It is proving to become a spectacular war, then,” Thanatos says. It always is, when Eris has sown the seeds of discord beforehand. “I shall have to remain vigilant.”

“My apologies,” Ares offers. “I did not intend for my domain to purloin your rest, my Emperor. Although I must say, you look better rested than when last we spoke.”

He certainly _feels_ better rested. “My brother has been rather helpful in that regard.”

“Ah, of course,” Ares smiles warmly. “I am pleased Sleep could be of assistance.”

“You were correct, Lord Ares. On all fronts. I was in need of the rest, and it has been… well, not pleasant, to speak of the Knave-King, but it has been liberating, in a way,” Thanatos says. He still has not been able to fully recount his ordeal, but he’s spoken of it to Hypnos, and to Mother Nyx, to an extent. He’s getting there. “I owe you my sincerest gratitude, and much more than that, besides.”

Ares shakes his head. “You owe me naught at all, my dear Death. In fact, I would be most honoured if you allowed me to bestow a gift upon you.”

“A gift?” Thanatos questions, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of gift would this be, Lord Ares?”

He cannot quite manage to keep the hesitation from his tone; though he trusts Ares, implicitly at this point, he also knows those of Olympus have a rather curious stance on what they consider to be ‘gifts’.

And he appears to be justified in his doubt, for what Ares produces from within the folds of his pteruges is a small vial filled with a golden liquid that glows unnaturally bright in the dully lit room. There is only one substance that shines quite like that.

“Ichor,” Thanatos draws the conclusion, cocking his head curiously. “You are gifting me ichor.”

“My own,” Ares clarifies, and it is the first time Thanatos has ever seen him look uncertain of himself. “It is a keepsake I am able to sense, wherever it goes. I thought, perhaps, it could serve you, when you are faced with a challenging assignment. So that I will know sooner, if something were to happen. Spill but a drop of it, and I will come find you without delay.”

The golden vial seems that much more radiant now.

If he’d had this when Sisyphus forced him into chains, he could have been out of them within minutes – could have smashed the vial, could have summoned Ares, could have saved himself days of torment. Ares is gifting him this so he will _never_ have to experience suffering like that again.

Blood and darkness, how is War itself this benevolent?

“I will accept this,” he says, evenly, “on one condition.”

Ares’ fingers curl around the vial. “A condition, my Emperor?”

Wordlessly, Thanatos shapes a second vial from the shadows, and he drags a nail of his gauntlet across the length of his thumb, his own golden-hued ichor welling quickly. He lets it flow into the vial, creating a twin to the keepsake held in Ares’ hand. His own life essence is less bright than that of Ares, the chthonic nature of his ichor like starlight where its Olympian counterpart shines like the sun itself. Different at their very core – and yet so very similar, bottled like this.

He holds his vial between two claws of his gauntlet while he wills the tear in his flesh to close. “You will accept this from me, in turn,” he demands of Ares. “I will not have you spend another year in captivity.”

There is, he finds, a great amount of satisfaction one can experience from catching War off guard. He wonders how many have managed such a feat over the eons.

“You honour me,” Ares murmurs, sinking into a deep bow. “I shall cherish it.”

“And make use of it, if the situation calls for such measures, I would hope.”

“And make use of it, if the situation calls for such measures,” Ares agrees, “loathe as I would be to spill this blood.”

Thanatos smiles wryly. “And here I thought you enjoyed bloodshed, Lord Ares.”

“Not yours,” Ares argues. “ _Never_ yours.”

The vehemence in his voice takes Thanatos aback. “Let’s hope it won’t come to that, then.”

He proffers the vial of his blood to Ares, who gingerly accepts it, looking very much as though Thanatos has just handed him Helios' chariot itself. Thanatos takes Ares’ own vial in turn, once again marvelling at just how warm Ares’ essence is underneath his fingertips, ichor running hot as mortal blood does in battle. It is a comforting warmth that Thanatos gladly tucks away inside his chiton – a reminder that he will not have to face another trial alone.

War is his keeper, now.

And Death will keep War, in turn.

* * *

The vial helps.

The first few months, he takes it everywhere, even on the simplest of jobs. Its warmth is a constant source of comfort and confidence, both of which he’s been sorely lacking ever since he was put in chains. With Ares’ vial on his person, Thanatos can quash the feeling of dread that surges in his chest whenever he has to go to the surface, because its presence ensures he will be _safe_ , no matter what happens.

Lord Hades is not pleased, having an Olympian artifact in the Underworld, but he has not spoken of the matter. Doubtless Mother Nyx requested he hold his tongue, after Thanatos confessed to her the reason he carries Ares’ ichor.

It’s been easier to speak of the Knave-King with Mother Nyx and with Hypnos since he received the vial as well. Before, it felt as though being captured and chained and held against his will were things that were still happening to him, things he would not ever be able to escape, things he would fear for the rest of his existence. But now… Now the incident is just something that happened, in the past, and while it is still an unpleasant topic of thought and conversation, he is able to confront it. Because he knows it will _never_ happen again.

He is _healing_.

The first time he leaves the vial in Erebus, he goes to collect the soul of an old man who lived alone on the outskirts of a small town, the cabin utterly deserted but for the crop Thanatos has come to harvest. The next time, it is a child who just passed of illness, her father weeping at her bedside as Thanatos severs the girl’s connection to the surface. The third time, it is a young soldier who got inebriated and lost his balance on his way home, cracking his skull open on the cobblestones of the busy market street.

Every time, it’s easier to leave the vial, his failsafe, behind, until he only takes it on assignments he is handed by Lord Hades or Mother Nyx personally, just in case. Olympus does not call on him for any unusual requests again, which suits him just fine. If he never has to personally deal with Lord Zeus again, it will be too soon.

But where Thanatos now only brings his vial to the surface when his work could potentially be perilous, he finds that Ares takes the vial of his blood with him to the surface every single time still.

He can sense it, when his blood leaves Olympus, when it appears on battlegrounds or within council chambers or near places of worship, on occasion. It’s curious, but then Thanatos doesn’t let it concern him overmuch. He gifted that vial of his own volition, and if Ares wishes to carry it regardless of circumstances, that is his good right.

Still, he cannot help but be curious.

“They say that Death always follows War,” Ares says when Thanatos inquires about it the next time they find one another, once again on a newly deserted battlefield. “Yet I find it more agreeable to place War and Death side by side, myself. So I shall take a piece of you with me wherever I go, and may swift Death grace those who fight at my behest.”

Admittedly, that is not the answer Thanatos expected. “I didn’t realise War was quite so poetic.”

“Oh, but there is plenty of poetry to be found in War. More ballads have been sung about heroic deeds in time of war than about any other topic.”

“And most of those verses end with Death.”

“As well they should,” Ares proclaims. “A mortal’s life makes for the finest epos if it ends at its crescendo. As such, it is you and I, my dear Death, who inspire the greatest of poets.”

Their domains are not often looked upon with favour. But when Ares puts it the way he does, well… it sounds almost romantic. “You would have us go hand in hand forevermore, Lord Ares?”

He speaks the words in a drawl, hiding behind sarcasm the way he’s wont to do. But Ares, ever sincere, ever incapable of being anything but, proffers a hand to Thanatos, palm up. A question. An _invitation_. “I would, my Emperor.”

Ares’ hand is large and warm and calloused, and Thanatos surprises himself by how little he hesitates, taking Ares’ hand and interlacing their fingers. “May we inspire a truly great epos, then.”

Ares lifts their joined hands up so he can press an unexpectedly gentle kiss to Thanatos’ knuckles. “May we, indeed.”

Thanatos hums softly at the contact, Ares’ lips searing on his skin. He would very much care to find out if they feel just as pleasant when moulded against his own. “I do believe,” he says, voice soft but steady, “that a proper epos ought to have a crescendo.”

His eyes are drawn to the bob of Ares’ throat as he swallows. “Most have more than one.”

“Then we’d best get started.”

He leans in before he can second-guess himself, before he can begin to wonder if this is a mistake, if he ought not to consort with an Olympian in this manner, if there is still time to back away, if he can –

_Oh._

Ares’ lips meet his, and Thanatos understands, with startling clarity, why the mortals see War as such an overwhelming force of nature. He is everywhere, _everything_ , invading Thanatos’ senses until all he knows is Ares, the warmth of his body and the taste of his mouth and the adoration dancing in his half-lidded eyes. He would allow himself to fall into ruin if it meant he could stay here for just a moment more, and it only stands to reason that the mortals take up arms in Ares’ name by the thousands, by the millions, if this is anything at all like the heady sensation of a war-driven battle.

He rests his forehead against Ares’, revelling in the sensation of strong arms around his waist, of that gentle warmth that radiates from his very being that makes Thanatos feel safe and protected and _loved_. He would gladly stay here, enveloped in Ares’ warmth, for the rest of his days, if only he could.

“If I may be so bold,” Ares says, his voice low and rough and so very gratified, “I believe there is a higher point to be reached yet, my Emperor. If you would allow me.”

He would allow Ares anything, at this point. “Yes.”

Ares’ answering smile is as warm as his embrace.

* * *

They ascend to Olympus, to Ares’ home, and after a crescendo has been reached – more than once, like a proper epos – Thanatos finds himself curled against Ares’ side, warm and comfortable and safe and loved. He has already decided that he never wants to leave here again.

That, of course, is not possible, he knows. But at least for a little while longer, he can pretend.

Ares smooths Thanatos’ hair away from his forehead so he can press a kiss to it, and Thanatos hums contentedly, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Ares’ neck. His fingers trail a lazy path up Ares’ abdomen, then his chest, until his touch inevitably finds the marred tissue shaped like the links of a chain, and he stills.

He can feel Ares’ breath hitch, and he quickly pulls his hand back – would have pulled his hand back, if Ares hadn’t caught it in his own. Ares guides it up to his lips, kisses the inside of Thanatos’ wrist, where the scars from Sisyphus’ shackles are most pronounced. He hisses at the contact of warm lips on cold scar tissue, and the sound seems to spur Ares on, more soft kisses pressed to every inch of the scar.

“Beautiful,” Ares murmurs, one more peck placed upon Thanatos’ wrist before he tugs their hands back down, pressing Thanatos’ palm against his chest, where his own chain-shaped scar crosses over his heart.

Thanatos frowns down at their hands, at where he knows his scars sit underneath Ares’ palm. “There is nothing beautiful about them.”

“Of course there is,” Ares argues, so sure of himself, so convinced he is correct. “They are a part of you. And you, my beloved, are _exquisite_.”

Honeyed words. “I would prefer if they were not a part of me at all.”

Ares shifts so he can look Thanatos in the eye – so Thanatos can see the sincerity in his expression. “I wish you had not received the wounds,” he says. “I wish you could have been spared that. But I will forever be grateful that those wounds had the chance to _become_ scars. That you lived, and mended, and that you’re here, now. With me.”

The maimed skin underneath his fingertips seems that much colder, when Thanatos realises just how close those wounds were to never healing, never scarring. How close Ares was to _dying_ , how the lacerations of those chains would have remained open and weeping ichor until he bled dry, how the lesions would have remained until his body decayed into ash and there was nothing left. How much worse everything would be, if these scars did not exist.

Thanatos pushes himself up, pulls his hand away from Ares’ chest, and before Ares can question what he’s doing, he dips his head down, pressing his lips to the first link of the chain made of scar tissue, just above Ares’ hip. Then the next link, and the next, and the next, slowly working his way up. He stops, briefly, at the spot where their hands rested before, revels in the sensation of Ares’ heartbeat, fast but steady. _Alive_.

He continues his path up, stopping only when he reaches Ares’ clavicle, where the scar continues its path around the back of Ares’ neck – and Thanatos cannot resist nipping at Ares’ jugular as well, delights in that strong pulse thrumming under his touch.

Death ought not to be quite so attached to life, in whatever form. But for Ares, Thanatos will make an exception.

Only when he lifts his head again does Ares reach for him, cradles his face in both his hands, holds him as though he is the most precious thing in all of existence. _Looks_ at him as though he is the most precious thing in all of existence, a golden-hued flush colouring the bridge of his nose, where his white warpaint has begun to smear.

“Thanatos,” Ares rasps his name like a prayer. “You will ruin me.”

“You will let me.”

“Yes,” he breathes, tracing his thumb along Thanatos’ cheekbone. “Titans preserve me, _yes_.”

Thanatos seals his devotion with a kiss.

He does, eventually, have to leave – he cannot be late, and he cannot rely overmuch on Hermes to pick up his slack, especially without asking it of him beforehand. But he knows he will return here, when time permits. Knows he will never tire of seeing War come undone under his touch. It is, after all, most often Death who finishes War.

When he goes, he leaves his golden bracers behind, the scars on his wrists on display for all to see – because they are a part of him, and they are _exquisite_.

He will not let himself forget.


End file.
